Hunted
by Melodious329
Summary: Methos is being hunted, but by whom and why doesn't he want Mac to know? Slash DM/M
1. Chapter 1

Hunted

Hunted

Adam Pierson has been identified as a new immortal, taught by Duncan MacLeod. The watcher council didn't like it but after the Galati fiasco didn't dare do anything more to interfere in the Game and so left him alone. Joe was supposedly watching both teacher and student with help from Mike the bartender.

Adam fairly stumbled into the bar, his normally light step seeming heavy. It was late in the evening, things had quieted down a bit and so Joe immediately ambled over toward the young-looking man who had taken a seat at the far end of the bar. Recently Adam had seemed pretty tired Joe noticed, but the bluesman chalked it up to concern over MacLeod not to mention being woken up in the middle of the night by Amanda. Strange that as much as they all railed against the man for being a self-serving bastard, they all counted on him to save their asses when the shit was neck deep, like a sort of means of last resort, a trump card.

As Joe got close enough to place a beer in front of the man, he noticed that his friend seemed more than tired. Adam seemed haggard, dead on his feet.

"Hey, what's going on?" Joe's voice reflected his sudden concern for the ancient immortal. Keane had been dealt with, and according to Mac he wouldn't be back so what was the matter?

Before the old man could answer or, more likely, make an attempt to avoid the question, the lean figure stiffened and the hazel eyes became distant in a manner Joe knew only too well. Another immortal was close. However the response this time was extreme even for the paranoid old bastard. It was in the eyes, they had gone so hard Joe wasn't sure that they belonged to a human instead of a wild animal or some caveman evolutionary ancestor.

It told Joe a helluva lot about the situation. Adam was expecting someone besides MacLeod then. But it was the Highlander who walked in the door and Adam visibly relaxed. Actually the old man didn't so much relax as perk up. The tension was still there but it was covered by a brittle representation of his normal sarcastic self.

Mac didn't seem to notice, not that Joe was surprised. The awkwardness that the Horsemen had injected into their relationship hadn't eased despite the new perspective that Keane's appearance had brought. MacLeod was so concerned with keeping an eye on his own stilted behavior and avoiding any potential minefields in the conversation that the awkwardness of his friend didn't even register. And their awkwardness made Joe awkward which annoyed him. He was too old for this juvenile shit! It gave him a new appreciation for all the times that fights between himself and MacLeod had caught Richie in the middle.

Adam left first, not giving Joe a chance to ask again unless he did so in front of MacLeod. And he really didn't want to ask in front of the Highlander. Maybe it was because Methos obviously didn't want the younger immortal to know hence the exaggerated normalcy. Or perhaps it was because they both knew that MacLeod would overreact. He doubted that was all there was to it though.

Adam Pierson had been his friend long before he had done anything more than just watch MacLeod. Adam may have ostensibly quit the Watchers but he was still the link between all of Joe's worlds: the Watchers, the immortals, and the regular life at the bar. 'Adam Pierson' hadn't been a lie exactly, but rather an obfuscation, maybe a lie by omission. The world's oldest man's latest persona had been like a fossilized tooth found in the Ethiopian desert. It was only a piece of something far greater but it still spoke eloquently about the characteristics of the whole.

No his relationship with Adam existed outside of Duncan MacLeod and he would interrogate the ancient pain in the ass himself.

He didn't bother hunting the old man down. Adam had been coming in pretty regularly. Whatever was bothering him, he wasn't running. Which was confusing in itself.

The next night, he was just working behind the bar enjoying the guest band when Mike came up and whispered in his ear.

"Pierson's facing off against some big guy in the alley behind the bar. I saw them when I took out the trash."

Joe swore under his breath. The ancient bastard would definitely leave now. He hurried as much as he could, trying to get there before Adam could get away from the other immortal.

He needn't have bothered, Adam was rather incapacitated. The scene was strange, not unusual just unexpected. The head-hunter was lying a short distance away, the head had rolled even further. Which begged the question, why had Adam killed him? Adam almost never killed, even when challenged, even for vengeance. Joe had only known the old man to kill when it would prevent injury or death to his friends, MacLeod in particular.

The other question was what was wrong with Adam? He was still on the ground, slumped over his own knees and emptying his guts onto the cement. It was like he couldn't stop, like his insides were trying to claw their way up his throat. The spasms continued for at least ten minutes and Joe's gut clenched in sympathy.

Finally they did stop and Adam lifted his head to look at his one person audience. The sweat bathing the sharp features glinted in the artificial lights from the streetlamps and made the ancient man seem exceptionally young, like a sick child desperate for comfort.

"Adam, are you all right?" It was a stupid question, Joe knew. The lean frame shook under the force of panting breaths and he saw Adam swallow thickly before answering.

Still that sarcastic pain in the ass managed a chuckle however breathless. "What does it look like Joe?!" Adam's knees buckled momentarily as he pushed himself to his feet, his normally sharp eyes slightly glazed.

"It looks like you're in some shit, the question is how deep?" Joe reached out and patted Adam's back. "Come on back to the bar…"

"I'm fine Joe. I'm just gonna head back to my place. Don't worry about it…"

"Don't tell me not to worry, Adam!"

Joe stopped walking, closing his eyes briefly in an effort to restrain his rising frustration. Then he turned to face his wayward immortal friend. "You're right, you should go home and get some rest. But I want to see you back at the bar before we open tomorrow to explain why you look like something the cat dragged in. And no disappearing!"

"Wouldn't dream of it." The cocky smirk was back in place as the immortal slipped his long legs into the driver's side of his Volvo station-wagon. Joe walked slowly back to the bar, content that Adam would indeed be back the next day. Whatever it was that made the ancient immortal kill the challenger would bring him back to the bar. The tough part would be getting the tight-lipped s.o.b. to talk about what was really going on.

It was as frustrating as Joe had anticipated. Joe was tired the next morning as he had spent half the night on the Watcher network looking for a reason why Adam might have killed the other immortal last night. There was really nothing special about the guy. He was young, at about a hundred and fifty and originally from the eastern block. As far as Joe could tell, Adam had never met the man or his teacher. Neither had the other immortal done anything weird in the weeks before coming to Paris and challenging Adam. The guy was a hunter, just traveling around and challenging people. It really looked like it was just a random incident.

The bluesman was sitting at a table near the stage, looking over some financial papers when Adam wandered in. The immortal acted like nothing had happened, but the bags under Adam's eyes said different. They couldn't even be called bags, they were the size of the luggage Amanda brought with her when she came into town.

And once the immortal took off his long coat, Joe saw that Adam had lost weight, weight the already lean man could ill afford. It made Adam's face look like some predatory bird. It also told Joe that this had been going on longer than he had thought. Why hadn't anyone noticed? Why hadn't _he_ noticed?

"So what was that all about last night?"

Adam gave a nonchalant shrug as he poured himself a beer despite that it was before noon. Joe almost laughed at himself, expecting a five thousand year old man to conform to twentieth century standards regarding alcohol consumption. For most of the man's life, beer was probably safer than water.

The ancient sat down at the table before answering. "Oh you know the drill, Joe. Immortal challenges me, I win, I take his head…"

Joe shot the other man a glare that Adam patently ignored. "Why did you kill him?"

"Because it's what we do, or have you forgotten?" Joe in turn ignored Adam's droll tone.

"I mean, why didn't you run?"

"I will decide when I run." Adam hadn't raised his voice but the words were said with all the intensity of a shout.

"It has something to do with Mac." Joe was certain now. A nerve had obviously been struck.

Adam gave a great put-upon sigh and leaned back into his chair with his glass. "Not everything is about that bloody man Joe." Right. That meant it was definitely about MacLeod. Still the old man obviously wasn't going to tell him, so he changed tactics.

"Fine, but that doesn't explain your reaction last night."

At that comment, the ancient immortal actually looked slightly embarrassed. "I don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know?!"

Adam surged forward to set his glass down hard on the table. "I mean I don't know. There isn't a whole lot of bloody precedent for the reactions of five thousand year old men to multiple quickenings!"

Joe frowned. Adam was right; most immortals didn't make it to one thousand much less five thousand…wait. "Multiple quickenings?"

"It's been a bad couple of weeks." Adam frowned and leaned his forearms on the table, apparently deciding to spill it. "I've taken maybe nine quickenings in the past two weeks. They know me Joe."

"What?!" Oh God this was worse than he thought.

"The first one called me by name but I didn't recognize him. I killed him just to keep him quiet. And then Keane…and now." Adam stopped talking, leaving Joe with a strong desire to take his cane and whack the immortal with it.

"And now," he prompted with barely restrained impatience.

"They know me, my habits, my…friends." Joe nodded tightly. If the old man had a weakness that was it, probably why he was so aloof.

"That still doesn't explain your reaction."

Adam grimaced, his gaze sliding away. "Maybe there's some kind of upper limit or something or too many close together…It wasn't a problem until maybe the fifth one but it's getting worse."

"What are you going to do?"

"What do you mean what am I going to do?" Adam snapped. "It doesn't seem as if I have a lot of choices here."

"Well you can't just wait for them to kill you?!"

"Joe as far as I know, there is no one out there who knows who I am besides you and MacLeod and the rest of his bloody clan. I don't know where to start looking and I can't leave…"

"If you told Mac he would keep a watch while you…"

"No." Adam's tone was adamant and suddenly Joe could see the determination that had kept this man alive for all of recorded history. "MacLeod will not fight my battles." And then a look like pain and bitter regret crept over Adam's entire countenance. "He doesn't need to worry about an old bastard like me anyhow." The last was said in a lower, softer voice as if it hadn't really been meant for Joe to hear. But the old mortal did hear it and the self-contempt in his friend's voice loud and clear.

Mac really could be a bastard sometimes. There had only been glimpses of Adam's pain in the time since Bordeaux, since Byron. And this Keane business had just dragged it all out again. The stubborn Scot hadn't judged him worthy of death but Mac had judged him unworthy of trust and friendship, acted like Methos should be doing penance or something.

How could any of them really understand what it was like back then? Sure everyone liked to believe that they made their own decisions that they weren't unduly influenced by the culture in which they lived. People like MacLeod liked to believe that no matter what he'd been taught that he would never beat his wife, never harm an innocent. Wasn't it Einstein who said, "Few people are capable of expressing with equanimity opinions which differ from the prejudices of their social environment. Most people are even incapable of forming such opinions." And yet Methos had. He had walked away, had changed and he hadn't the excuse of a light quickening like Darius.

Methos had been both killer and healer, slave and master. He had walked away from two thousand years of learned behavior, from perhaps the only family he had ever known. But even MacLeod's own violent past couldn't convince the self-righteous Highlander that Methos deserved a little consideration, a little forgiveness, maybe even a little comfort.

"But what if it gets worse?"

Adam stared at his hands clasped together. His features were tight and a muscle in his jaw twitched. His friend's sudden brittleness told Joe the answer that Adam was too proud to ask. That was why he had really shown up, why he was being so forthright. Absurdly it gave Joe a perverse sense of pride that Adam trusted him enough to let him take care of his ancient carcass. The barman couldn't help but wonder how long it had been since Methos had let anyone get close enough to watch his back.

So Joe prepared to keep an eye on the ancient man. He fed Mike some story about headhunters going after the student of Duncan MacLeod, believing that Adam knew where Methos was. Joe didn't know if the lie would keep Adam's true identity a secret but frankly that was the least of their worries at the moment. It was actually amazing that he hadn't been identified already, but it seemed that of the four dead immortals that had had watchers, none had been close enough to hear the challenge. A good idea since these were headhunters.

Mike was discreet. He had known Adam was immortal before the ancient man had informed the Watchers of his recent demise and quit. He hadn't said anything then, had never commented on Joe's flexible interpretation of the rules. Joe told him to call immediately whenever Adam was challenged. He also told the other watcher not to approach Adam no matter what. Who knew if one of the quickening induced side effects would make the ancient man violent.

It was the next night that Joe got the first call. He was at the bar, just sitting on a stool. He had called in every favor owed to him to get enough staff for the bar with Mike and himself basically out of commission. Mike said that Adam had been challenged right outside his apartment building, that the hunter was waiting for him there.

Joe rushed right over, Adam had literally gotten an apartment right behind the bar. When he got there, Joe decided that being challenged outside his own home had actually been a mercy for the ancient immortal. Less travel time.

Adam looked too exhausted to have to drive himself anywhere. Though the man wasn't vomiting, it was obvious that he had. Now he was just kneeling, looking like every breath was an extraordinary effort.

Joe waited. Watching without comment as Adam eventually levered himself up off the ground and then into his apartment building. The old mortal knew that it was only ferocity of will that would get Adam up to his apartment and into bed. But it was too early to start cosseting the immortal. Adam was still strong enough to protest. He only told Adam to be at the bar the next morning, because Mike needed some time to sleep too. Adam nodded his reply.

Adam was at the bar as promised, just barely before noon. Joe knew from MacLeod's complaints that the ancient immortal often slept the morning away, but Adam looked as if he hadn't slept a wink. Joe wondered if he hadn't, if Adam couldn't sleep or was it that no amount of sleep was enough to compensate for the quickenings and the battles and the constant suspense of when the next one would come. Joe himself was starting to lose sleep because of that last one.

Despite his exhaustion, Adam was actually pretty handy behind the bar. And the immortal seemed glad to have something to do. They talked like old friends of inconsequential things, skipping between ordinary topics and immortal ones. It was companionable and humorous and enlightening and frustrating as so many conversations with the ancient immortal were, like being given a 'pearl of wisdom' and a 'bone to gnaw on' at the same time.

That night though, Adam was actually challenged at the bar, discreetly thank God. The immortal had been taking a break from behind the bar since Mike had shown up after some much-deserved rest. Adam was listening to the band play and propping up the end of the bar as he often did. Joe almost shrugged off the obvious signs of immortal presence, taking the seeming normalcy for granted and assuming it would be MacLeod.

It wasn't. A stocky, bald-headed man who looked to be about forty approached Adam wearing a grim expression and gesturing obviously to the inside of his coat. Adam's back was stiff as he followed the challenger outside without looking back at Joe.

It was that more than anything which made it clear that Joe himself was only in danger if Adam stopped participating in this slaughter. If they had wanted him dead, Joe would be dead by now.

The barman waited two minutes before heading into the alley. It was the first time that Joe had really seen Adam fight. He was good, very good, quick and efficient. Joe wondered absently if Mac really knew how good the ancient immortal was. He knew that they had been practicing together, the younger immortal having refused to take no for an answer.

Watching the fight was a reminder that there was more to this than helping Adam deal with his strange reactions to the quickenings, it reminded Joe that Adam had to fight to get the quickening. Of course he had known that, it had just never really occurred to the bluesman that the immortal would lose…ever. The man had survived five thousand years for heaven's sake so he only felt a little sheepish for his assumption. But if Adam wasn't eating or sleeping, how much longer til losing was a real possibility?

Joe waited, noting that Mike had followed him outside as well. Mike's curiosity must have been piqued by this sordid affair, though the other man had asked for no further details. Joe figured it would just be a matter of time before Mike got himself dragged right into the middle of it. When that happened Joe would have a lot of explaining to do.

Adam won easily, disarming the other man by flipping his sword into a reverse hold and slicing his opponent across the stomach. Joe looked away as the final stroke landed, barely hearing the thud thud of flesh bouncing. The quickening began with Adam standing but he quickly dropped to his knees not unexpectedly.

But to Joe's surprise, the old man fell onto his back before the end, his long limbs jerking wildly as he was buffeted by the electrical currents. It took Joe a minute to realize when the lightening had died away, because Adam was still convulsing. The old mortal swallowed heavily as the realization stole over him. It was indeed getting worse. Who knew that immortals could have seizures?

When it stopped Joe approached cautiously. Adam's eyes were closed though whether the immortal was unconscious or dead he couldn't tell. Not knowing what else to do, Joe poked the man's leg with his cane. Adam jerked awake immediately, scanning his surroundings before lying back down on the ground. He gave the bluesman a small, pathetic smile as he sat up. It disappeared as Adam held his head, acting like he was having a headache caused by the movement. The immortal shrugged off his friend's concern though and pushed himself to his feet with a stony expression.

Joe wanted Adam to rest before driving home, but knew that the immortal was too disheveled to be able to go back into the bar. He wanted to suggest that Adam stay the night with him, but knew that it was still too early. So he watched, noting with grim satisfaction that Mike was getting into his own car to follow.

The next morning, Adam was cornered at a cafe near a bookstore he frequented. Joe knew he couldn't get there before Adam would leave, so he headed to the ancient immortal's apartment. Mike told him it was mostly a replay of the night before anyway.

Adam opened the door looking like death warmed over and still wearing the bloody clothes he had fought in. Upon discerning that it was friend not foe, Adam had simply flopped back on his bed, leaving Joe to lock back up.

Joe stood there, feeling like a fish out of water. What was he supposed to do? He knew from personal experience how frustrating it felt to be nurse-maided. How much more difficult would it be for Methos to accept help. The man had lived five thousand years without sickness. He was used to taking care of himself and more than that he was used to not having anyone else to take care of him. Methos couldn't even remember his mortal life for god's sake.

So Joe did what he could. He scrounged in the kitchen cabinets until he found a can of soup and heated it up. Adam slept like the dead, not moving except to draw breath. Joe hated to wake him but Adam needed food just as much as sleep and he was pretty sure that the immortal hadn't been eating.

So he set the bowl on the floor and sat on the bed and nudged the unresponsive body that lay there.

"Adam, wake up. You need to eat something."

Petulant as a child, the figure rolled over and buried his face in the pillow. Joe couldn't help but laugh at the man. How does he do it, Joe thought. How did that man make it through five thousand years filled with death and destruction with anything approaching innocence left? Because Adam did still have innocence. Sometimes it was the bright innocence of a child, sometimes the wounded innocence of the wronged, and every so often it was the harsh, self-righteous innocence of the warrior.

At the sound of his laughter, the prone immortal lifted his head, giving Joe a glare with slitted cat-eyes. It was ruined by the mouth that was turned down in an unmistakable pout though. Amazing. Here the man was fighting a battle for his very life against incredibly long odds and he was pouting about eating soup.

"I made you soup."

Suddenly serious, Adam inhaled a great breath before sitting up to lean against the wall at the head of his bed.

"I can't." The desolate sound of his voice caused the last of the laughter to die in Joe's throat.

"Sure you can. It's just soup. Here just a little." Dutifully Joe placed the bowl in Adam's long fingered hands. Eventually the broth at least disappeared.

Not particularly satisfied but realizing that was all the concession he was going to get, Joe took the bowl away. Adam went back to sleeping though more restlessly this time while Joe sat on what turned out to be a terribly uncomfortable couch and leafed through a half dozen of the books that were scattered around. He headed back to the bar when Mike called him to say that he was back from his nap, sitting outside in his car again.

Joe woke the immortal again before leaving, fairly shoving him towards the shower and forcing Adam's promise to be at the bar later in the evening.

He never got there. Another head hunter found him as he left his apartment. That made twelve. It signaled that things were escalating, building up to the release of the biggest quickening ever seen. Five thousand years worth. It would be enough to take out a city block.

Mike called and told him that when the convulsions had stopped this time, Adam was dead. Mike had carried the dead immortal up to his apartment and left him on the bed. And so it begins, Joe thought. A simple act of kindness, but most Watchers would consider it interference nonetheless.

The next day, Adam showed up at the bar around lunchtime. The man's weary frail appearance tugged at whatever paternal instincts Joe possessed. It was hard to keep things in perspective sometimes. Joe knew intellectually that Adam could take care of himself, that he had been doing a fine job of it for a long time.

But Joe could still remember how Don doted on his protégé. How proud the man had been of Adam's genius, how much he wanted to support the young man, guide him. Adam must have gotten a good laugh at them all.

But as Joe brought another bowl of soup over to the ancient immortal seated at a corner table, he thought maybe not. Maybe his protective instincts were right after all. Everyone needed people to care for them, perhaps this ancient man most of all. And he doubted very much that Adam had laughed. He could remember the indulgent smile that Adam had tried to hide when Don praised him.

And then MacLeod showed up. It was a kick in the gut to realize that this situation made him actually sorry to see his friend in his bar. Dammit he hated secrets and yes he knew that his life was built on secrets. That didn't mean he had to like it.

He conjured a believable smile; after all there was always the possibility that MacLeod would wheedle the older immortal until he explained what was wrong. Adam was a great actor, but he couldn't hide the fact that he was eating broth and drinking water. And Mac definitely noticed, looked at the evidence pointedly.

Adam simply responded with an acerbic, "What?" It was the perfect thing to make the Highlander back off. It made MacLeod feel like he no longer had the liberty to comment, to question, to worry. And Adam took advantage of the younger man's confusion to quickly exit. And even though Joe could see honest sadness in those dark brown eyes, he shrugged off the following questions without speaking.

"So Amanda must've left town again…" Joe steered the conversation away with practiced ease.

Joe headed for Adam's apartment at about eight pm that night, having made it his personal responsibility to see that the five thousand year old baby ate regularly. He got the call about half way there. Adam had gone to meet a challenge in a warehouse, so Joe changed directions. Once there, he watched the fight with a curiously anxious Mike. The other watcher was certainly not unaffected by Adam's increasingly worn down state. It offended the man's sense of fair play.

Even though Adam was better than anyone expected, he was becoming increasingly desperate by the circumstances. If he had been out of practice before, now he was experiencing an excess of opportunity to practice. At this point, Joe didn't begrudge the old man whatever tricks he had up his sleeve. Neither it seemed did Mike who grunted in approval of the outcome. Methos had had to throw himself on his opponent's blade for that win, but it was a win and that was all that mattered.

The quickening healed the wounds and the two Watchers waited as Adam convulsed and then vomited only liquid. When he was done he fell again onto the concrete floor on his side, clutching his head like he was having the worst migraine ever. Joe began his approach.

"At least he let you fight in a more private location this time."

Adam's head lifted warily but his eyes showed confusion. That was all the warning Joe got before Adam began spouting what sounded like nonsense but what was probably some ancient language. This wasn't good.

Keeping a little distance, Joe tried again. "Adam, it's me Joe."

Adam nodded and Joe could see recognition along with pain in those eyes. The immortal knew who the mortal approaching him was. Adam opened his mouth again but still English was not what came out.

In frustration, Adam pushed himself to sit on the warehouse floor, his legs stretched out in front of him. Slowly and watching Joe's face with expectant eyes, Adam began talking. It seemed to Joe that the man was cycling through all the languages that he could remember. But none of them were recognizable as either English or French.

With impatient hands, Adam rubbed away his tears of defeat, his lower lip trembling. Angrily, he stood up. He brushed past Joe and Mike, heading towards his car. But when he got to it, he seemed uncertain, baffled, like he couldn't remember how to open the door much less drive. He stood there staring at it, with a hand over his mouth, the faint trembling of his body just barely perceptible. Then with a roar, Adam smashed his hand into the driver's window.

After the outburst, the immortal was subdued. He let himself be led away by Joe, let the barman reach into his coat pocket to get his car keys. Joe gave them to Mike, asking him to drive Adam's car back to Joe's house. Asked, not ordered. Joe knew very well that this was outside of his authority to command. But Mike did it without comment, not even asking about the ancient languages. It was a blessing.

Adam stared out the window during the drive, not even attempting to speak. Perhaps that was a good idea, but it was certainly unnerving. Methos was rarely quiet and never so passive. Though Joe could not fathom being in such a situation, he did sympathize. To be trapped, betrayed by his own mind and unable to do a damn thing about it…Joe was glad that despite the despondency he could still see anguish flash brightly in those eyes. At least Adam had not been cowed, had not given up.

His immortal guest got showered and then Joe tucked him into bed…_tucked him into bed_. Joe never thought he'd see the day. In his mind, he'd always thought of these men as his immortal charges. Duncan, Methos, Richie, his brood, but of them all Methos seemed the strongest. They had all taken it for granted really. That he would be ok no matter what, that he would be their rock to lean on. After Alexa…died, the ancient man had withdrawn into his books, acted like nothing had happened. And they had let him though they all knew better. That business with the Methuselah stone had made it very clear the depth of love Methos was capable of.

When Adam awoke in the morning everything seemed to be fine. Well at least Adam could talk coherently again. The man in front of Joe was definitely not fine. He was withered, wasting away. Adam's skin was ashen, with a gray tint. The hazel eyes were too bright as if with fever but it was just determination, a determination that Adam was clutching so tightly he trembled. Obediently Adam slowly drank the broth that Joe placed on the table in front of him.

They talked haltingly, not about the challenges or Adam's failing strength. They talked of the bar, of new goings-on for the Watchers. Adam seemed hyper-alert, eyes twitching at every sound, fingers restless on the kitchen table. When silence inevitably fell, Adam turned eyes on Joe that spoke of gratefulness and shame and fear…and resignation.

Joe almost cried at the sight. Adam was certain that this would end in his death and fearful that even before the end, there would be nothing left of himself to save. And the ancient man was grateful for the small comfort of Joe's presence, to know that someone cared about his struggle, that someone who knew him would remember him even though he was ashamed to be seen so vulnerable. Joe just nodded his understanding.

Adam stood then, rubbing his forehead absently as if the headache still hadn't left him entirely. Then the immortal wandered away to prowl and pace the house, like a feral animal exploring his new cage. And Adam was becoming more animal than human, his humanity being wrenched away from him every minute of every day. He was like a ghost, living only to fight, winning only so that he could fight again. He was coming apart at the seams.

The phone startled them, Adam came running back into the living room before Joe had even picked it up. It was a challenger, wanting to speak to Methos. The immortal on the other end used that name, Methos. The fact that Adam's exact whereabouts and Joe's phone number were known to these guys prevented Joe from even attempting to dissuade his friend from going.

But Joe drove him there. Adam hadn't said a word of protest when Joe announced that. The bluesman was glad that he wouldn't have to fight Adam's pride every step of the way. Though when he thought about it, Joe felt kind of stupid, the man wasn't fit to drive a car himself but he was fit to fight to the death with a sword that weighed as much as a child?

As they walked outside to the car, Joe noticed Mike's car waiting across the street. He almost laughed. The watcher was under surveillance now too.

And Adam still won, his face a frozen mask of concentration. Fighting seemed to be the only thing the man could concentrate on. This time during the quickening, Adam didn't end up on the floor convulsing with the quickening though. Something was different.

Adam had dropped to his knees and was clutching his head, howling in pain. When the lightening died there was only that sound, screams of pure agony. Joe was stunned when Adam started to claw his own face, desperate as if trying to get something out, wild like an animal will chew its own foot to get out of a trap.

Joe wasn't quick enough to stop Mike from rushing towards the tortured man. His yell of protest died in his throat as the other watcher attempted to subdue the immortal, Mike trying to wrench Adam's hands away from his face. But Adam was strong and crazed with pain. Joe didn't know what else to do so he took his cane and bashed Adam over the head with it.

The immortal went limp in Mike's restraining arms, causing the other mortal to turn surprised eyes up at Joe. Mike was breathing hard and looked down at the limp form in his arms. Joe knew that Mike was realizing what he had done, how much he had interfered. Fortunately Mike decided that the only direction to go was forward. He picked Adam up and carried him to his own car, telling Joe that he would meet the bluesman back at the house.

Joe was stunned but beyond grateful. He certainly couldn't carry a hundred and eighty pound dead weight around. Mike tucked the ancient man into the spare bed before going to make up the couch for himself. Joe smiled. Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb he supposed.

Joe himself waited in a chair beside Adam's bed, waited with his gun just in case. After an hour total of unconsciousness, the lean figure moved under the blankets. Adam turned onto his side, facing away from Joe towards the wall. The immortal clutched his head again but the pain seemed to have subsided some. Still Adam whimpered pitifully before sliding into a deep sleep.

Moving to retire to his own bedroom, Joe took a last look at Adam's face. The dried blood was all that was left from his earlier attack, the wounds having healed completely. But something…Joe squinted in the dark before realizing to his horror that Adam's nose was bleeding, the blood an almost black stain on porcelain skin and white pillow-case. But he didn't dare wake the ancient.

The next morning was much like the previous. Adam came downstairs showered and dressed, no sign of his battles besides the lines of exhaustion carved into his face. He acknowledged Mike, but spoke little to either man. When Joe put the usual bowl of broth in front of him though, Adam looked green like he was about to be ill just at the smell. The immortal ran from the room, leaving a distraught Joe and an uneasy Mike in his wake.

For the rest of the morning, Adam only sipped at a glass of water. None of the men spoke.

Joe and Mike were sitting in the living room, it being just past two o'clock when they saw Adam rush past the room on his way out the door. Joe was irate. That an immortal would come to his home and challenge Adam, expect Adam to fight right outside his sanctuary.

This fight Joe watched with baited breath, waiting for Adam to make a mistake that he wouldn't recover from. But again Adam prevailed, maybe he was pissed at being challenged at Joe's house too.

Neither watcher was prepared for the immortal's reaction to this latest quickening. Adam vaulted off his knees, sprinting back into the house as soon as it stopped. What the fuck?! Mike was quicker but the man was just standing inside the doorway to Adam's room when Joe caught up.

Adam had removed his clothes, literally tore them right off it seemed. The ancient immortal was crouched on the carpet desperately trying not to fall over from exhaustion. Joe moved forward, his hand outstretched.

"Adam?"

"Don't, Joe." Adam's voice was tight with pain and adamant. "My skin…I can't stand the feel…" Adam broke off, unable to put into words what was wrong but Joe had heard enough to understand.

Adam's sense of touch must be hyper-sensitive. He couldn't stand the feel of his own clothes on his skin, couldn't stand to be touched. Hazel eyes pleaded with him wordlessly, eyes whose pupil had constricted almost to nothing in pain, leaving only the colors of bright gold and amber and deep forest green glinting in the sunshine from the windows. Joe shot him three times in the chest with the silenced gun that Adam had given him.

Mike moved the body into the bed again. Despite the immortal's exhaustion, Adam stayed dead for only about five minutes before gasping awake. Fortunately death seemed to have been the needed cure since the ancient man slipped into sleep literally with his first breath.

And Adam slept until the next challenge. Joe drove him out to the warehouses again, this time Mike riding in the backseat. They didn't speak, but Joe watched the immortal the entire trip. Adam surely noticed his attention, very little escaped those watchful eyes, particularly lately. But Adam said nothing. To Joe's horror, Adam seemed actually more relaxed in anticipation of the battle to come. The mortal couldn't tell if Adam had given up though, if he intended to throw the fight. Adam's sharp features gave nothing away.

But Adam didn't throw it. He finished it quickly, pulling out his second blade to the surprise of his opponent. It was that surprise that gave Adam the opening he needed.

Like before, Adam took the quickening lying on his back. But instead of his limbs convulsing, they barely moved, like dead weight. That's what Joe thought at first, that Adam had died before the quickening had even really started.

But when the two mortals came up to the man, Adam's eyes were wide open and he was still breathing, his chest rising and falling in an unnaturally steady rhythm. He was literally catatonic.

Mike carried him to the car and then into the house, placing the immortal into the bed in a way that was familiar to them now. But this time they both stayed, wondering when…if Adam would wake up this time. They pulled up chairs next to the bed, watching the sleeping form like medieval physicians conferring in a sickroom.

"_He's_ Methos. Isn't he?" Joe only nodded. Mike had nodded too as if understanding perfectly why they had to save a five thousand year old man. And maybe he did. It wasn't just that Methos was the embodiment of the entirety of recorded history that made him valuable, that he could recall and explain things that had long ago descended into myth and lore.

It wasn't even that he had five thousand years of experience to draw upon, five thousand years of watching the changes in the world around him, seeing the follies of mankind and learning from them. It was that he was all too human. He reminded Joe that immortals were just guys thrust into impossible, extraordinary circumstances.

With MacLeod, Joe couldn't help but get pulled in by a little hero-worship, thinking that the Highlander would be the One, that he deserved to be the One. But with Methos…most days Joe couldn't decide if the man was in actuality the embodiment of all earthly wisdom or the most foolish man alive. And the ancient asshole probably did it on purpose. Not that Joe thought that all the irritating behavior was an act and that underneath it Methos was as cute as a kitten, but he did think that maybe it was a conscious effort to push it in people's faces, to separate them from their idol quickly.

He was a good man, a wise man because he knew the meaning of friendship and was strong enough to be a friend no matter what anyone thought, even his friends. A man who deserved unwavering friendship, who inspired it in people like Mike who barely knew him but knew that he didn't deserve to be hunted down like a dog, didn't deserve to be abandoned and left to face the end alone. It was strange, two fragilely mortal men standing guard over a treasure, a relic of untold value that was as strong as steel and as fragile as the human heart.

Joe woke to the feel of eyes watching him. He looked over at Mike seeing that the other man was asleep in his chair, before turning towards the bed. Adam lay there on his back, skin glowing in the moonlight making the man seem otherworldly. The immortal's face was turned on the pillow towards Joe, his mouth turned upwards in a small, peaceful smile.

The mortal managed to pull up his own smile, however false it felt on his face. "Hey," he said moving forward. Joe gave into his impulse to smooth the hair back from Adam's forehead, his hand lingering there, his thumb massaging. "What was that?"

The peace was gone from the eyes in a heartbeat, replaced with a look of horror. "I was here, Joe, I just…couldn't move."

Bile rose up in Joe's throat. To be trapped in one's body, seeing and hearing but unable to move, to exert your will at all…no wonder there was a trace of hysteria in the cultured voice despite Adam's attempts to bury it.

Joe closed his eyes briefly to get his own emotions under control. He plastered the smile back on his face and continued stroking the soft hair as Adam went back to sleep. He stayed there all night, knowing the end was near.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's note: Thanks for all the reviews

Author's note: Thanks for all the reviews. I wasn't happy with the first chapter so I have reposted it, not with nay changes really only with more detail. I hope you like it better but tell me if you don't.

Duncan strolled into the bar feeling pretty chipper and looking for a friendly face. He hadn't seen either of his friends lately and was hopeful that the old man had had enough time to cool down. Things had gotten too far out of hand, both he and Methos had been hurt by the actions of the other and Duncan knew that they had caught Joe in the middle. He didn't want to lose either of his friends, was determined not to. Methos's actions during the recent Keane fiasco had shown him that despite the old man's acerbic demeanor there was still something there to salvage.

But he didn't see either of his friends in the bar. It was early yes before the lunch rush but Joe would normally be there already. Not even Mike was behind the bar, Duncan had to ask a man he had never seen before where Joe was. It turned out that his Watcher was just hanging out in his office.

The immortal was surprised by the scene behind the door. What was with all his friends lately? Methos looked like he had gone on a starvation diet and now Joe was sitting in his office drinking alone and looking like his best friend had died. And no one would tell him anything. Did they still think that he was going to fall to pieces at the next crisis?

"Joe what's wrong? Where's Methos?" He was trying to be sympathetic but exasperation crept into his voice particularly towards the end.

Joe swallowed thickly and practically glared at him. Then the mortal seemed to come to some sort of conclusion. "Well I guess it doesn't matter if I tell you now."

Duncan's jaw muscles clenched in anticipation of news he was sure he wasn't going to like. "What trouble does the old man need bailing out of now?"

"Don't worry, you don't need to put yourself out over him, not anymore." Joe's voice managed to be both indignant and simply tired like he had been living under stress for far too long.

"What do you mean, not anymore?" Duncan knew his own voice was rising quickly to a decibel unfit for the enclosed space.

"Because he's probably dead." There was a note of finality in the Watcher's voice.

"You don't know?! Joe, where is he? What is going on?"

Joe took a long drink from his glass before responding. When the bluesman opened his mouth again, the story tumbled out. Joe told him how hunters had been seemingly popping out of the woodwork to take their chance at the world's oldest man, how Methos had stayed and fought rather than put his friends in danger. Tearfully Joe spoke of Methos's reactions to the quickenings, of his courage in the face of overwhelming odds...But what stuck out most to Duncan was that his friends hadn't told him, hadn't asked for his help, that it had all been going on under his nose.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Duncan felt sick and breathless. "I would have protected him, I would have done…anything."

"I know, I know you always protect your friends, but after the way you treated him," Duncan began to interrupt but Joe held up a hand to forestall him. "He said he didn't want you to worry over him." Joe snorted into his drink. "Like he wasn't worth the attention of the great Duncan MacLeod."

If Joe had meant that barb to wound, it was a good shot and suddenly Duncan couldn't stay seated. He jumped up to pace. "Joe I have to tell him, he can't be…" He had to stop for the emotions that were rising up to choke him.

Had he really been that self-righteous? That cruel that Methos would rather go to his death than ask for his help? Duncan had always thought that he would be the one that Methos would turn to in a crisis and it hurt to think that Joe had been trusted with Methos's fear, that Joe had been the one to comfort the old man in his hour of need. He felt jealous even though he knew he shouldn't.

He had been an ass. He had no right to judge Methos's ancient past. The moment Cassandra raised that ax over the crumpled form Duncan knew that Methos was worth saving, that the wrong man would have been executed. And with reflection he had understood why the old man had manipulated him. Without Methos on the inside of the Horsemen camp, things might very well not have turned out so well…for anyone.

But it hadn't stopped either man from being hurt by the entire thing, from feeling betrayed. Now Duncan couldn't even remember what he was hurt over. For not being told, Methos didn't owe him that knowledge. Was it because Methos had committed those atrocities? Duncan had not been lying when he told Cassandra that he would kill Methos if he had to, but he trusted that Methos had reasons for his actions. Methos had his own code and though it was often incomprehensible to Duncan, it did not include killing for no reason.

After the Dark Quickening, Duncan had called him the best of friends and he was. Methos's belief in Duncan had never wavered as the old man put himself in danger time and again for the ones he loved.

Was he upset that Methos had manipulated him? Duncan couldn't be mad at the ancient bastard for that either. For Methos the ends seemed to justify the means. Lying was simply another way to keep the Highlander, and himself, safe.

"Joe, tell me where he is."

"An immortal came to see him yesterday. Mac all the other challengers had been young, good but not good enough. But this guy, he's old and good. Methos didn't want me to come with him. He didn't want me there if he…Mac he doesn't stand much of a chance. He hasn't been eating, he's so weak." Joe paused as tears filled his eyes and the mortal looked down at the desk for a long moment. "He gave me his journals, on a zip drive, told me to tell you that he was sorry, for everything."


	3. Chapter 3

Duncan managed to get to the warehouse before Methos did. He waited in his car far enough away that the challenger wouldn't detect his presence. It wasn't long before the old man pulled up in his station wagon and Duncan hopped out to meet him at the warehouse door.

"MacLeod, get out of my way." Strange that Methos's voice should sound so normal, that the words would be so familiar, when nothing was normal or familiar. It was a reversal of roles, Duncan being there to save Methos. And Methos looked like he needed saving which sent a wave of self-recrimination through Duncan, burning through his veins like lava. He could barely stand to look the ancient immortal in the eye, but he stepped aside to let Methos pass.

If Methos knew what the Highlander was about to do, he didn't show it. Duncan shot the ancient man in the chest as they passed each other in the doorway. He comforted himself by thinking that at least he hadn't shot the man in the back and he caught Methos's lifeless body instead of letting the man fall to the floor. Unfortunately he didn't see a way to keep the man down for long enough except by emptying the gun's chamber into his friend's body.

The immortal challenger inside the warehouse however, was definitely surprised to see MacLeod. And upset. He had bronzed skin like Cassandra and warm brown hair, was a bit shorter than either MacLeod or Methos, but well built. Duncan allowed no time for the man to escape, skipping even the usual niceties of names. The challenger was a formidable opponent as Joe had suggested, but Duncan was nigh unbeatable when his clan had been wronged.

Methos never came inside the warehouse. The younger immortal found him sitting on the ground exactly where Duncan had left him, having not even moved out of the puddle of his own blood.

"Methos he's dead." The ancient immortal nodded as if detached from the entire affair. The fight may have ended but it appeared the pain was harder to get rid of; in fact the sword fight had probably been a rather anticlimactic end to weeks of being terrorized. Methos had thought he was going to his death.

He knelt next to the man and the words just poured out. "Methos, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry that I wasn't there for you. You're always there for me, always believe in me…"

"No it's not your responsibility Mac, I didn't want to bother you…" Methos's voice was oddly breathless, his eyes glazed, but Duncan was too upset then to notice.

"Don't do that, don't act like your life is unimportant to anyone but you. Bother me?! Do you have any idea what I would…if anything happened to you… " Duncan had to stop and compose himself, order his thoughts into something approaching coherence.

But before the younger immortal could say anything else, Methos literally toppled over. Duncan jumped to lower him gently back to the ground. For a moment Methos seemed halfway to hysterical, his body quaking violently, his eyes wild and darting around as if his attention were being pulled in many directions at once and the man was coming apart under the strain.

And then it stopped, Methos's indomitable will exerted with implacable force over his body's reactions once again. But it seemed to take the last of the man's strength, the fatigue of his ordeal falling on Methos like an anvil on the coyote. Methos lay on the concrete sidewalk outside the warehouse, his skin white against the blood that covered him, his eyes only half open, but his fingers restlessly moving.

Duncan attempted to help the man to stand but Methos didn't have the strength so Duncan carried the other immortal over his shoulder. The younger man pulled the ubiquitous blanket out from the tiny trunk of his car and wrapped Methos in it before settling his cargo in the passenger seat and strapping the man in.

It was a strange car-ride to the barge. Methos the inscrutable was for once vulnerable which was both reassuring and frightening. It was heart-wrenching for Duncan to think of Methos as fragile, in pain, set upon by all sides with no one to lean on.

When they arrived, Duncan carried the ancient immortal inside, not even letting Methos attempt to walk. He went straight to the bathroom, unwrapping the man and stripping him to wash the blood off. After a moment's consideration, Duncan stripped off his own clothes as well. Easier to get them both clean at the same time.

Methos was too out of it to notice. He lay in the bathtub like a new born calf, helpless and covered in blood, making small restless movements but unable to lift his own head up. Gently Duncan washed the blood off of the lanky figure before splashing off the reminders of his own wounds.

Duncan could see the toll the ordeal had taken on Methos as he washed and dried his friend. Methos looked gaunt, his already lean form now sickly from physical exertion and mental stress. The Highlander pressed his lips to the top of the other man's head as he vigorously rubbed Methos's back dry.

He settled the still naked form snugly in the bed under extra blankets. Duncan dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt before moving back into the kitchen. He called Joe who sobbed his relief that Methos still lived. The immortal hated to remind Joe that this wasn't over until the person behind it was found. The Watcher had agreed hastily, ringing off quickly as if eager to prove himself worthy of the reprieve.

After the phone call, Duncan crushed a handful of ice in a towel with a mallet. If Methos was still feeling nauseous ice chips would be easier to keep down. He carried a bowl of them over to the bed with an extra dish towel. The younger immortal didn't want to take advantage of Methos's vulnerable state, but it really was the best solution so Duncan crawled into the bed with the other man.

He pulled the naked form against his t-shirt clad chest, cradling the dark head against his shoulder and placing the bowl and towel on Methos's other side. They weren't quite on their sides, but Methos's bare back was against Duncan's chest as the younger immortal fed the ancient man ice chips from his hand.

Methos was warm and soft, his skin smooth and his torso practically hairless. Duncan couldn't help nuzzling the skin below Methos's ear, knowing he shouldn't be enjoying the man's infirmity this much but intoxicated by the other man's scent, like seas of long grass cut with clear streams. And Methos was so docile, able for a moment to just receive comfort and suckle water from the ice in Duncan's hand.

Duncan had always found the man attractive. When Methos had turned up again in Seacouver, he had resolved to let go of his fear of being rejected by a man who had seen and done everything, but then there was Kristin. It was a parade of crises after that, if not Duncan's own, then Richie's, and he had been distracted by the ease of his established relationship with Amanda…Jesus Christ what had happened to his life?

Holding Methos's pliant body a little tighter, Duncan let his regrets wash over him. He wished that he had done many things differently but now he wished that he had been there to hold Methos through this entire nightmare. He knew that as two immortals they couldn't fight each other's battles, but he should have been there for Methos to lean on, to watch the old man's back. They should have stood together. When he had thought that Methos was dead…it felt like his heart had stopped, that it had been replaced by some cold stone. He had always thought that they would have time. Now he resolved that he wouldn't let there be any more misunderstandings between them, that he would tell Methos the only truth that really mattered. Finally they both sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note: Thanks for the reviews and sorry this took so long. It was more difficult than I thought to imagine both Methos and Duncan's emotions and reactions. Tell me what you think of it.

When Duncan woke, the first thing he noticed was that he was alone in the bed. The second was that he could feel the ancient's presence nearby. He sat up quickly, looking around for the lean form.

Methos seemed unfazed by Duncan's anxious awakening. The other immortal simply flitted around the kitchen, fixing himself a cup of coffee. But the fact that Methos had awoken before him, only increased Duncan's feeling of having falling down the rabbit hole.

Trying to act normal as if Methos hadn't almost had a breakdown yesterday, Duncan slid from under the covers and, throwing on a pair of sweatpants, wandered over to get his own cup of coffee. Methos skirted around him, as if trying not to get too close.

"Did you eat?" Duncan's voice was trying for casual.

Methos just glared at him over his cup. "No."

"Methos…" Duncan was sure he had heard that same tone of voice from his father's mouth four hundred years ago.

Frustrated both with himself and with Methos, Duncan set down his own cup and moved toward the other man. He opened his arms to embrace Methos, wanting to recapture the closeness of the previous night, but the other immortal jumped back as if Duncan had been trying to attack him. The coffee spilled all over the man's chest and hands. Methos cursed and glared at Duncan as if it was his fault that Methos had freaked out.

Setting his coffee down on the coffee table, Methos yanked open a drawer in Duncan's bureau, taking a new shirt with him into the bathroom and slamming the door. Duncan stared after the man baffled. He didn't know what he had done to scare the man, but he knew that Methos didn't normally need to lock himself in the bathroom to change his shirt.

The younger immortal busied himself with cleaning up Methos's spilled coffee until the bathroom door opened again. Methos seemed pale, but wanted to pretend that nothing was wrong. He fell onto the couch, sprawling in an approximation of his usual bonelessness.

Duncan went to stand in front of the man. "Methos, what is it?"

Methos gave his most irritating and put-upon sigh. "Someone is trying to kill me. Excuse me if I'm a little antsy, this doesn't normally happen to me."

Duncan swallowed his rising frustration at the other man's tone as he sat on the couch beside the other immortal. He had to remember that Methos was scared, striking out like a cornered animal. Instead of retorting in a similar fashion, Duncan reached out a hand to stroke the exposed forearm, but Methos hissed at him, "Don't."

Duncan withdrew his arm as the other man pulled his knees up to his chest, hugging them with his arms. What had happened that Methos would deny himself the comfort of touch? He stared quizzically at the elder man.

Methos's features suddenly softened and he brought one hand up to run through his disheveled hair. Then guileless, apologetic eyes turned toward Duncan, "I'm sorry. I just feel…out of control. Things recently have reminded me of distant memories and now I'm…confused, my emotions now are mixed up with those then."

Methos eyes had filled with tears but the man was determined not to let them fall, turning his eyes upward and taking deep calming breaths, blinking them back.

"Methos, tell me. What memories?"

Methos laughed but it was a ruthless, bitter sound. "Have you ever been trained Duncan? No I suppose not. You've never had your every move controlled by someone else, been beaten, tortured, raped, starved, and isolated in order to break you, to mold you into another's vision. Where do you think I got that little trick with Cassandra?"

Methos's voice had been harsh, but Duncan had felt the pain behind the words anyway. Duncan's mind raced over all that Joe had told him, the fear, the suspense, the helplessness and the inevitability of it all. And then he thought about what Methos would have been trained for…

Duncan felt his jaw clench. He should have known, did know, it would have been impossible for Methos to make it through the last five thousand years without being enslaved. But it had been easy to forget; Methos never acted the victim, never seemed weak or to need comfort until now. He made light of any tragedies in his history. And now Duncan could see it as a smokescreen, "methinks he dost protest too much."

Giving into his own need for touch, to comfort, Duncan pulled the surprised form to himself, sliding Methos who still clutched his knees across the leather cushions as the older immortal yelped his objection. The younger man settled the vaguely struggling form between his own raised knees to face him and lifted the ancient man's jutting chin to gaze into fearful and yet obstinate hazel depths. And Methos's struggles stopped.

"But you're not there, Methos, you're here…with me. You have friends, you have choices. You could have run and left Joe to whatever fate, but you didn't. You don't face this alone. Even if you don't tell me, I'll still care, still worry about you." At that suggestion, an unexpected but sad smile crept over Duncan's face.

It was truer than Duncan had even realized. Every time Methos had gone away, Duncan had wondered and worried. At first it was just worry for the safety of the 'oldest immortal' but now it was for his friend, a man who irritated him more than any other but who also made him smile and laugh, think and question. Methos was such a strange combination of strength and fragility. He was the one person that Duncan could share his own fears with and he wanted to be that person for Methos.

They sat there and Duncan waited, rubbing his hands along Methos's back, feeling the sharp bones of the old man's spine and shoulder blades beneath the t-shirt the man had borrowed. He waited as a little of the tension bled out of the frame in front of him, Methos's head coming up from where it had rested on his knees.

Methos opened his mouth to speak, his eyes meeting Duncan's before the old man closed his mouth again, his eyes sliding away to look at the couch's leather back before starting again.

"My earliest memories are blurry as I said. I do know that I was a slave, that I had always been a slave. For who knows what length of time, I had not a thought in my head except to please my master. I had no desires for myself, did not know enough to wish for more than the life I led. I did not even know love or lust, sex was just another task that I was to perform whether it was pleasant or not. I must have been immortal for some time though I did not know it. I thought it was simply my master's will that I continue to live, but not to age."

Methos snorted as if impatient with his own stupidity. "But one day, my master tried to kill me. I knew enough to know that it would be true death and suddenly I wanted to live. So I killed him. I rather think that he was surprised."

And then Methos's eyes lifted to stare into Duncan's own again, the hazel eyes intense. "I swore I would never be a slave again. You see, I lie even to myself, Highlander. But every time after that was different. I refused to be broken again. I had a sense of self and no matter what I was forced to endure, that could not be taken away."

The eyes gone darker green with pain filled with tears again then and this time those tears poured out over porcelain cheeks, unheeded. Methos kept speaking, his voice high-pitched and distraught. "But after a couple of those quickenings…I lost…I forgot things…"

The phone rang then, startling Duncan so that he practically jumped out of his skin. He turned to look at the source of the noise, not moving yet to answer it. But when Duncan turned back, Methos had composed himself. The ancient immortal's eyes had shuttered his emotions away, the tears forgotten, drying on his cheeks.

Methos moved off the couch, turning his back on Duncan and rinsing his coffee cup as if nothing had happened again. With an irritated growl, Duncan went to answer the phone. It surprised neither man that it was Joe calling, saying that he had a lead and to pick him up at the bar immediately.

The drive over was silent. Duncan was silent because now was not the time to continue their earlier conversation, but Methos's silence was uncharacteristic. The old man generally deflected attention by talking. It was yet another indication how much this situation had gotten to the seemingly imperturbable ancient man.

Duncan thought then that that was part of the problem, he still thought of Methos as the immoveable object. He should have learned better by now, but he wasn't the only one who apparently thought that a five thousand year old man should have overcome all worldly concerns. Methos's own words showed that he didn't think that he should need anyone and perhaps thought himself unworthy of such attention.

Sometimes he thought it was more accurate to think that the man had had five thousand years to develop more hang-ups and psychoses. The world's oldest man was certainly self-sufficient but perhaps he was also afraid, taught by countless betrayals and terrible experiences not to expect kindness or tenderness. Duncan could hear Methos's sardonic voice in his head, "This one time, I stopped to help a little old lady cross the dirt path and it ended with the slaughter of everyone I loved."

When they pulled up to the bar, Joe was waiting outside and hopped into the back seat without even speaking. The mortal's first words were directions and he only began to explain where they were headed after the car was in motion again.

"So I cross-referenced all of the phone records from the challengers and there was one number in common." Joe paused, shifting on the leather seat like a guilty child before his mother. "It's a watcher. She was assigned to Neil, that long haired American punk, you killed about four months ago."

Duncan couldn't resist, throwing a questioning look over his shoulder at the watcher. "She was involved…"

"No, as far as I can tell she never met her immortal. She's stayed in Paris since it happened, spending a lot of time at library at Headquarters." Joe shook his head, fatalistically. "I have no idea how or why she's involved, but she definitely is."

Both men shot worried glances over to Methos, who simply nodded and went back to staring out the window.

Minutes later, they pulled up to a nondescript apartment building. Joe and Methos approached the door to the first floor flat with guns already drawn, leaving Duncan to knock. When the door, opened, Duncan sprang into action. He gripped the woman's hand that held the door and jerked it behind her back, turning her in the process. He walked her back into the living room.

"Is there anyone else here?"

"No. I'm alone." Her voice was breathless but not overly fearful.

Duncan threw her onto the couch, taking his first good look at her. He could hear the click of the door being locked behind them. The woman was as ordinary as the building. She had brown shoulder-length hair, medium build, bright brown eyes. The only thing that Duncan thought was, why?

The woman's reaction was completely unexpected though. She laughed. Duncan stared astounded, barely noticing as Joe joined him in front of the couch. Methos stayed in the doorway, his gun lowered at his side.

"What in the hell did you think you were doing?" Joe said what they were all thinking.

The laughter stopped abruptly. "Methos has been hiding in the Watchers, Joe. Adam Pierson wasn't a big deal, no one expected him to last very long, but _Methos_. It's enough to decide the game!"

Joe rubbed a hand over his face. "Why don't you start at the beginning. How did you find out it was Methos?"

The woman glared reproachfully at Joe. "After my immortal lost to MacLeod, I had a little time on my hands. The watchers at headquarters were all atwitter about the great Highlander, how he was going to be the one, so I did a little research. Imagine my surprise how often researcher Adam Pierson was listed." The fake surprise on her expressive face made Duncan want to smack her.

She shrugged. "I was curious, so I bought some audio-video equipment." Duncan's jaw dropped again. How many places had she bugged? The barge, the bar, Joe's house obviously. And the woman was not the least bit apologetic it seemed.

"Why?" Duncan choked out.

Her reaction was positively apoplectic. "Because he lied! And cheated! He wasn't fit to be the one. You wouldn't kill him and I doubted the Watchers would now!" It was the first time that she had actually looked at Duncan.

Duncan felt sick, another watcher interfering in the Game. How dare she condemn Methos, she didn't even know him. He almost groaned at the irony of his own thoughts.

Methos walked over to stand beside the arm of the couch. When he spoke the woman had to turn her head to look at him. "I want you out of Paris and out of the Watchers."

"Fine," she spat. "But I already sent the tapes to headquarters. They know who you are now."

Methos simply nodded and led the way outside, trailing the other two men in his wake.

Joe kept up a constant chatter on the ride back, saying how he would make sure she left and that the Watcher organization had changed, that he would make sure of it. Duncan just barely managed to keep from laughing in the man's face.

After dropping Joe back at the bar, the silence became deafening. Methos seemed too casual, as if this didn't even involve him. It was unnerving and the guilt ate at Duncan. He was certain that he was the one who had said Methos's name aloud. But more than that, he had judged Methos just as that woman had.

And now Methos would have to leave, hide himself away because now they knew what he looked like. Duncan was surprised the older immortal hadn't insisted on being taken back to his own apartment to pack. But at the barge, Methos simply sauntered inside as if nothing had happened. Duncan followed as Methos went into the kitchen, no doubt for a beer.

He couldn't take it anymore. Turning the other man with a hand on his shoulder, Duncan pulled an unresisting Methos into a hug.

"Methos, I'm sorry. I know you'll have to disappear now and I know that it's my fault, I wouldn't blame you if you never wanted to see me again for what's happened, but if you do…you can always come to me, always return. Please come back, I don't care how long it takes."

Methos interrupted, bringing his own hands up to push Duncan away so that they could look each other in the eye. "Duncan, the Watchers were bound to find out. I haven't exactly been discrete since meeting you. Joe could only cover up so much."

Methos laughed then, light and only slightly pained, "All this because of that little girl? She must have contacted every headhunter on the continent and they were probably only too willing to take a chance on an anonymous tip on the whereabouts of the mythical Methos." He hung his head still smiling a little and shook his head.

Duncan lifted the other immortal's face back up with his fingers. He kissed Methos lightly at first, tenderly. But it only last a moment before Methos pulled away. With his eyes still closed he spoke the words that the younger immortal knew he would say. "Duncan don't."

Without moving any further away, Duncan spoke, his lips practically brushing the other man's. "Why not?"

He pulled back so that he could look into now open and exposed hazel eyes. "You think this is just lust, that I couldn't possibly care for someone like you." His answer was apparent in the stiffening of Methos's body in his arms and the way his eyes suddenly turned toward the floor. "Then what is this feeling? Why have I spent the last two years tracking your movements with my eyes, watching you and wanting you? Why do you fit so easily into my life, waltzing in like you belonged there? Why do I feel your absence keenly, why did I feel betrayed when your past came out?" The last was said quietly.

"I'm sorry for how I've acted. You didn't do anything wrong, God knows what Koren would have done with the virus without you in his camp. I should have trusted you." Duncan kissed Methos again, trying to convey all of his feelings into the simple touch. Then he stepped back. Only a small bit of space but he wanted Methos to be free to make the choice, Duncan didn't want to seduce the other man into something Methos would regret.

And Methos chose. Long arms slid around his waist and Duncan was sure Methos could feel his smile as their lips met again.

--

A week later found them back at the bar, Methos grumbling under his breath and Duncan trailing behind, smirking. Joe himself couldn't help laughing as he slid a beer bottle in front of the ancient man's usual bar stool.

"They still following you?"

"Yes," Methos answered with a grimace. "Can't you dooo something?"

Joe chuckled at the childish whine about the half dozen watchers that had been following the old man. "Unfortunately I understand them too much, buddy. The mythical Methos, oldest man in the world, among them this whole time and as Adam Pierson, a regular guy, nice, hard-working. They all want a glimpse. It gives them hope, reminds them why they became watchers in the first place. Five thousand years of walking human history, change and adaptation who's still able to gossip around the water cooler as if there was nothing more important to do. You know there's talk about officially meeting with you, inviting you to talk about both you chronicles and being an immortal."

Methos snorted into his beer. "I'm not a pet immortal, Joe." With that comment, the lanky form slunk away to a table near the stage.

Duncan leaned his elbows on the bar, smiling genuinely for what seemed the first time in months. "You know, I think he should be the one."

Joe's face showed nothing of surprise, just amusement as if the Highlander had finally figured out something obvious. So Duncan continued, "I mean, he understands humans, is involved in their concerns and yet he has the wisdom to accept the things he cannot change. The human race doesn't need a hero, someone butting in all the time, making things worse. They need a plan, long-term solutions for the future on their terms."

The Highlander stared at the glass of Scotch Joe put in front of him. There would always be random violence but Duncan though Methos would be able to see the big picture. Methos would see not only the causes of suffering: diseases, violence, malnourishment, but also the root causes. Methos was great at understanding cultures, he could work with communities to solve their own problems. Maybe he could convince Methos to work for the UN in his next persona.

Duncan's thoughts scattered as Methos approached again, setting down his empty beer bottle and looking expectantly at Joe for another. As the barman set down the new bottle, he also set down a zip drive.

"I think this belongs to you, and no, I didn't read it."

Methos picked it up, looking at it as if considering. Then he simply put it back down. "Keep them." Methos's voice is nonchalant though they all knew the decision hadn't been made lightly. "But if you share them with the Watchers I'll have your head." Methos's smile belied the harsh words, it said instead, thank you for everything.


End file.
